What is gender, really? Little more than a social construct, created by society to dictate how people should and shouldn’t behave. If you’re born with a penis, you must act like this, if you’re born with a vagina, you must act like that. God help you if you’re born intersex because then you’ll be mutilated to fit within one of two neat little boxes society has deemed appropriate. Men and women. No space for those who identify outside those boxes, of course.
Where am I going with this? Well, to cut a long story short, I don’t feel right with my body. It doesn’t seem like it’s mine at times. Like some alien construct, a husk that surrounds and encapsulates me. It is foreign, strange and all too distant from me. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see me. I see a stranger, an outsider staring at me where my reflection is supposed to be. Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck in this body and I could just claw my way out to freedom from these oppressive confines, tear this shell apart bit by bit until my true self emerges bloodied and exhausted but victorious.
And sometimes I feel like this is something I could tolerate. Not like or grow fond of, mind you. Just tolerate. Something I can live with. Like a benign tumor or a bullet lodged somewhere where it can bring neither harm nor discomfort. It would save me all the heartache of coming out, all the angst, the bitter tears from being rejected by those closest to me, the financial cost of transitioning, not to mention the higher chances of joblessness, depression and suicide. All from living in a twisted, transphobic society.
I don’t know. It must be the fear. Fear of rejection, fear of loss, fear of harm, that paralysis me so. Every time I think of what to do or where to go from here, I’m struck dead still. Can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t feel.
What can I do? Where do I go? How do I do this?
Yet sometimes I celebrate my trans-ness. I revel in it, embrace it as part of my being. Something that I would never part with or forsake because it made up the core of who I am.
Frankly, I am afraid. And alone. This is why I get so angry when people tell me to just “stop being trans” or tell me to just “accept this body”. Don’t you see? I can’t!
Everything feels like an abberation. Like everything was out of place and I desperately need to put everything back in the right order. Like a vase that has shattered and was crudely glued back together and that it only very vaguely represented what it once was, the crudely applied glue seeping over the gaping cracks, denying it of its true beauty.
It’s like a tug of war. Between staying like this and moving on. It goes back and forth ad nauseum, without a hint of my control or conscious will. It just goes on. A cruel procession that dances through my head, a wound up mechanism that goes around and around without ceasing.
I can’t write my experiences very well or coherently but this is what it’s like to be me. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every year.
Wow, this has been the longest, most incoherent, disjointed post I’ve ever made.